The Odd Surprise
by MrsNoggin
Summary: For someone that was rarely surprised, Sherlock himself was a bounty of the things. Some delightful, some rather less so... A series of little one-shots, can be read independently or together. Rated T (for language!) for the moment, may change with later updates.
1. Paint it Black

_A series of one-shots, can be read independently, or together. A few blatherings about the times the Baker Street Boys and friends surprise each other. _

_**Paint it Black** - Just a little one, set during HoB. _

_DISCLAIMER: Don't own, wouldn't want to even if I could, they are far too difficult to manage._

* * *

For someone that was rarely surprised, Sherlock himself was a bounty of the things. Some delightful, some rather less so. Right now John was delighted.

With his elegant profile silhouetted against an equally dramatic Dartmoor landscape, the sunlight fell diagonally across Sherlock's face, casting and drawing shadows in the hills and hollows of his features. His long fingers tapped out a rhythm on the bottom rim of the steering wheel. And those full lips murmured along with the dim music pounding from the car stereo. John was aware of his flatmate's limited acquaintance with popular music, so his knowledge of the lyrics was curious.

"Rolling Stones?"

"Yes," the tone was bland. John marvelled at the effort he had made not to add _'obviously'_ and it made him smile a little inside. Sherlock shot him a look from the corner of his eye, "Does it bother you?"

"No, no, I'm just a little... surprised," he reassured him. He did not want, even for a second, to run the risk of him turning off that song, and losing its accompaniment. He tried not to stare, just flicking the odd glance from under his eyelashes.

"There is much debate around the meaning of this song," his voice was clear and John mourned the mumbled hum of moments ago, "Is it about war, mourning a lover, celebration, a statement advocating racism, opposing racism, a load of drug-fuelled nonsense..."

"And the answer is?"

"I have yet to determine. My interpretation alters somewhat every time I hear it."

"That's completely normal, though. The meaning of a song will always change when your mood changes. If you listen to a piece of music when you're happy it will mean something entirely different to when you listen to it sad."

"Nonsense." He scoffed.

John turned to his window to hide the smile. How annoyed he must be to be set side by side with mere humans. _Completely normal_ had been the wrong phrase, clearly.

"Watch him!"

"Bloody pedestrians." Sherlock muttered, avoiding the rambler too close to the road. He pulled into the car park of the Inn. Car park being an overstatement, it was more of an enlarged parking space. Still, the Land Rover was capably and smoothly swerved into the corner, leaving space for another vehicle beside it. John had never seen Sherlock drive, another surprise. He had assumed he would be the chauffeur on this trip, but apparently not.

"_It's been a long time since I've driven, John, it'd be quite refreshing."_

To be honest, it would have been refreshing for John too. He hadn't driven since being deployed the last time. It had been impossible with his injuries – stiff shoulder, occasionally non-responsive leg. Both not helped by his general lack of vehicle. Now though, he was sure he would be perfectly able, and it would probably have been quite enjoyable – he had always liked driving, as much as one can. But regardless he just agreed to make Sherlock happy.

The music cut out with the engine. John took a second to carefully file away the memory of Sherlock singing along, he was not losing that in a hurry.

"Smirking is not becoming to you, John."

"No, but Paint it Black is to you," he chuckled, opening his door.

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	2. Woolly Abominations

_**Woolly Abominations** - Just a teensy one._

_DISCLAIMER: Don't own, wouldn't want to even if I could, they are far too difficult to manage._

* * *

"Whatever happened to that parchment cream aran cable knit jumper of yours, John?"

John poked his head around the kitchen doorway, "What?!"

"The creamy cabley woollen garment you used to wear when we first met. I haven't seen it for a long time." Sherlock was facing away from him, nose in a book, long fingers flicking through the pages absurdly fast.

"Why? You hate my jumpers..."

"Oh, I am quite fond of some of them John, though woolly abominations they may be. They are very much you, and you seem incomplete without them on a winter's day. I was reading a rather fanciful passage that mentions the variance in tone between the whistle of the wind through natural structures versus those made by human hand and it reminded me of your parchment cream aran cable knit jumper. Which you no longer seem to wear."

John frowned at the microwave, wondering if that should have made any more sense to him than it had. And gave up. And then struggled to work out to which jumper Sherlock was referring. Ah, yes. "It got ruined. I threw it away."

"Explain?"

"When I got stuck in that wheelie bin. Just couldn't get the smell out."

"Oh." Silence. Page turning. And then, "You should buy another one. I quite liked it."

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	3. Momentum

_**Momentum** - a quick glimpse of childhood. Another teensy one, but I'm trying to update every day or so. Time is limited, I'm afraid, but will throw a couple of longer ones in soon._

_DISCLAIMER: Don't own, wouldn't want to even if I could, they are far too difficult to manage._

* * *

"Tedious."

"Did you never play as a child, Sherlock?" John snapped.

"Don't be absurd, John. Of course I played." Sherlock was lost in memories for a moment, "I distinctly recall spending hours one summer's day on a seesaw. I must have been... six?"

John smiled indulgently and fought down the '_aw, bless'_ that threatened to breach his lips. "Who with?"

"Oh, quite alone," Sherlock stated airily, waving a careless hand, "Other children were incredibly boring. Especially those related to me."

"Just how do you play on a seesaw on your own? For _hours_?" John frowned. This sounded like it could end up as another pitiful story of a lonely childhood. He dropped into his armchair and studied Sherlock's bored face for signs of remembered distress. There were none. In fact, Sherlock seemed puzzled as he looked up to him over the laptop.

"It was an important milestone for me. A lengthy study in momentum, the principle of torque and the effects of weight distribution on a fulcrum pivoted lever."

The laptop was snapped shut and laid aside. Sherlock unfolded his long limbs and rose, glancing at the clock before the heading for the kitchen. Ah yes, thought John, his blasted experiment. It must be time to baste the festering fingernails, or whatever he was doing this time.

"At six? Oh, Sherlock." John did not understand how any parent could allow their children to have such a miserable time as a child. Did they never play with him? Or even hire someone to do it for them?

"Pity, John? Really? I consider myself luckier than most to have acquired a useful knowledge in basic physics at such an early age."

"Yes, but you should have been out having fun." John insisted. Although a different childhood would have resulted in a different man, and he wasn't sure that would be an entirely good thing.

Sherlock's fingers lowered unexpectedly to ruffle John's hair affectionately as he passed him. He grinned. "I never said it wasn't fun."

* * *

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	4. Bad Day

**_Bad Day_**_ - John has a bad day. Sherlock doesn't help. Or does he?_

_DISCLAIMER: Don't own, wouldn't want to even if I could, they are far too difficult to manage._

* * *

The air was too heavy. It would rain any second now, or it _should_ anyway. John fancied he could feel the spots of moisture on the back of his neck. A fresh breeze tickled tantalisingly at sweaty temples, but it disappeared almost before it had even begun.

He could hear a distant shriek of a child playing in the distance. It was a stereotypical British summer day. A very long day. It had started as it meant to go on – badly.

John had woken with a jolt, turned for his phone to find the time, but it was mysteriously absent. He had lain in bed, frowning in a haze of sleepy confusion. It had most definitely been there when he went to bed, he distinctly remembered texting his sister about the dreaded 'Sunday Brunch'. It was not on the nightstand, the bed, the floor. What the... Oh. "Sherlock!"

He didn't bother to keep his descent down the stairs quiet, maybe he even stamped on the last couple of steps. The clock on the microwave added to the bad start. He was late.

"Sherlock!" Still no response. John rifled through the piles of papers and general debris on the coffee table on the hunt for the phone, "For crying out loud. I need to call in. If you have gone out with _my_ phone–"

"Then there would be little point muttering at me." Sherlock pointed out sensibly from somewhere behind the sofa. His hand appeared offering the device, offering simple, "I have misplaced my charger." As if that made it excusable.

John grabbed it without thanking him (what for?) and stomped back up the stairs. His alarm must have gone off and been ignored, or switched off. Life would be so much easier without Sherlock. But then, it would be a darn sight more boring too...

Work, when he finally got there, was busy, stressful and frustrating. He had a good set-down about his time-keeping; priorities were mentioned more than once, as were patients, lunch-breaks and the number of doctors currently looking for posts in the area. John sat silently, taking it all and apologising, all the while cursing Sherlock in his head. As usual.

He checked his messages on the five minutes he got for lunch. An emailed copy of a letter from the hospital only added to his bad day. A nine year-old patient he had referred had been diagnosed with secondary bone cancer with an unidentifiable primary source. Incurable. Great. Any hunger he had burning in his stomach from missing breakfast panged into anguish. Nothing was fair, nothing at all. What was the point of being a doctor if you couldn't help?

When he finally finished work he was hot and bothered and then the bus took an extra fifteen minutes to arrive (which wouldn't have been too bad if it wasn't supposed to run every five). It was packed and John had to stand up, jostled and shoved for another half an hour in the jammed traffic all the way back home. His shoulder tightened and ached from stress and hanging for dear life to a grimy yellow pole to prevent himself from landing in the lap of a large sweaty lady who glared at him the whole way, as if this was his fault. All leading to a very pissed off John Watson. He glared back.

Sherlock was asleep when he limped up the stairs. Stretched out over the ends of the sofa in his pyjama trousers and John's t-shirt. Which was rather infuriating in itself – was nothing of his actually _his_? There was no milk (not surprising) and the kitchen stank. Proper pure purposefully artificially created stink.

"I do not want to know what is fermenting somewhere in this kitchen, Sherlock, but it had better be gone when I've had my shower."

Sherlock mumbled a response, turning his back to the room. And John.

He adjusted the water temperature to just lukewarm, relishing the refreshing spray pounding on his aching head. Stale sweat rinsed away, joining and mating with the grime from his sweltering journey home, coiling and swirling around his feet before gurgling down the plughole. He decided the bad day was washed away with it; everything would only get better from now.

Or not. The smell was still in the air as he left the bathroom. He rose above it, not saying anything, not even _thinking_ anything. The door to his bedroom was open. Curious. Not so curious when he stepped inside.

"Sherlock!" John yelled. He tried never to yell. His voice raised occasionally, but never to anything so undignified as a yell. There was nothing from downstairs. John searched through the contents of his wardrobe and drawers, which for some unknown reason had been dumped on his bed and dressed in the coolest clothes he could find. He sat on the edge of the warzone for a minute before going back downstairs and tried to calm himself down. This was not a bad day anymore, he reminded himself, he had washed that away. Washed. It. Away.

"Your laptop is deceased, John," Sherlock sounded annoyed.

"How so?" John flopped into his armchair. If he had done something–

"I think it overheated. I tried to check if your files are safe, but, alas, even I cannot possess every skill." Sherlock harrumphed to himself as it dissatisfied by this turn of events and moments later let out a gentle snore.

John closed his eyes. Maybe if he couldn't see the day anymore it would stop being bad.

"Oh, and your mother called. I assured her you aren't busy this Sunday. She's making banana bread for brunch."

John kept his eyes closed. And started counting. One. Two. Three. Four.

"Which is a ridiculous term. I detest these American portmanteaus. Pure laziness. What can the point possibly be of... John, are you alright? You look a little peaky. Do you not do well in heat? One would think after serving in Afghanistan that you would be above suffering ill effects of a slight increase in temperature."

"Right now, Sherlock, I am so angry I want to break something. Into smithereens. Preferably you. So just let me count to ten. Please." John bit the words out.

"Are you starting again or continuing on from where you were before? If you were counting at an accurate regular rate of seconds that would–"

"Aaaaargh!" John picked up the nearest thing and threw it across the room. It made a satisfying smash against the far wall.

Sherlock sat bolt upright, "Good Lord, John. That was my–"

"I don't care!" And John swept down the stairs and out of the flat.

And here he was now, perched on a bench in the park, easing his feet out of those trainers that gave him blisters. The dappled shade of a tree he was sheltering in swayed with another whisper of a breeze. What was he doing here? Here in general, at this place in his life. Was he going anywhere? Did he want to go anywhere? God, this was getting a bit deep.

"John?" Sherlock was cautiously lowering himself to the warm wood beside him.

That was surprise. How often did Sherlock follow him? It was invariably the other way around. In cases, in thoughts, in life in general. Sherlock was looking straight ahead, for appearances sake watching a small dog cocking its short leg up the dark roots of a tree. But John could feel the minute instances of Sherlock's gaze flicking over him every few seconds.

"Your rage is unfamiliar to me John, I find myself somewhat at a loss."

John screamed inside. Why did everything have to be about Sherlock? His fists clenched on tense iron hard thighs and he turned his head slowly to look at the man beside him. Took in the buffed Italian mahogany leather ankle boots (entirely impractical in this heat, but first to hand, quick to put on – no laces), the pressed dark trousers (as always), moving up over the slightly crumpled light blue shirt (grabbed and put on in a rush), sleeves rolled carelessly and unevenly to the elbow, top two buttons open. To his face. Endearingly confused, possibly apologetic, although hidden well to the average person. But John wasn't average, not any more.

John let out a long sigh to try and calm himself and turned back watch the small dog scampering off. "Bad day, Sherlock. Bad bad _bad_ day."

"Oh. Sorry."

Was he? He was never sorry. About anything. John felt the tension rack up again and took a breath so deep it made his lungs ache. He was just about to blow, he could feel the yelling happening again. His mouth opened, his thirsty lips peeling apart painfully slowly, the barely moist skin clinging to itself for dear life as if to hold it in - the shouting, the unbearable building throb in his larynx as it drew in fuel for the impending explosion.

"I mean it."

The soft expulsion of air from Sherlock's lips stilled John's force in motion. He froze, his eyes reeling wildly to Sherlock. If there was any sign of deceit in those features he was going to punch them from his face.

A hot hand slipped over his clenched fist, the fingers squeezing gently, soothingly. A cooling breath of peace crept over his taut flesh, drifting over his wrist, up his arm and onwards, unfurling knotted muscles and loosening tensed joints. The effects of an actual physical apology.

"Hit me if you like, John. If it makes you feel better. Anything to make you feel better."

But he didn't, of course.

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_I love a good ol' review (or a bad one, if it's polite...) so do go ahead. Go on, please, it makes my day!_


	5. Oblivion

_**Oblivion** - __Greg may lecture Sherlock on the evils of drug abuse, but that does not mean he won't occasionally partake himself._

_DISCLAIMER: Don't own, wouldn't want to even if I could, they are far too difficult to manage._

* * *

Early morning, a quiet suburban street of London. The houses were mainly Victorian terraces with a few 1930s semi-detached properties filling the gaps between rows. John followed Sherlock through the front gate of one of the latter, checking around for signs of disturbance, any clue as to why they were there. It was not yet rush hour, so the road itself was quiet, only the odd pedestrian passing them by. The garden was tidy, a driveway to one side, well-kept beds and a trimmed lawn to the other.

"Sherlock?"

"John." Was his cryptic response.

The front door was easily jimmied open with a flick of Sherlock's disturbingly skilled fingers, assisted with only a paperclip and a credit card. The alarm was already switched off, but the house was dim and silent, ticking clocks and a quiet hum of electronics apparently their only company.

"Really, this is genuine breaking and entering," John hissed across the hallway. One day they were going to end up arrested. Properly.

Sherlock raised a hand to hush John and cocked his head, listening for something. He must have heard it, for a second later they were in the front sitting room. John took in the scene before him and immediately understood.

Lestrade was prone on the floor, in a heap with his head slumped against the front of the leather sofa. His shirt was open and untucked and he was bare footed. John switched into doctor mode instantly, sweeping past Sherlock.

"Greg?" He was down on his knees, checking a pulse, dilation of pupils, breathing. "Can you hear me?"

"Ssshmuh tonnn sodov." Was the response. Accompanied with a cloud of stale whiskey breath.

John rocked back onto his heels. Why exactly had Sherlock brought them here? This was a major invasion of privacy. If Lestrade wanted to drink himself to unconsciousness, that was his own business.

"Really, Inspector, this is less than dignified," Sherlock's voice was smooth and gave nothing away. He stalked through to the kitchen and John heard the clinking of glasses and running water.

"Fuck off Holmes." That was clear enough, though rather slurred. Lestrade opened a bloodshot brown eye to glare at John. "What's he doing here?... What are you doing here?"

John shrugged apologetically.

* * *

Greg Lestrade swiped a sweaty hand across his face, trying to clear some of the fuzzy nausea. And failed.

"Judging from your position, pallor and the trace of cocaine in your nostrils, not to mention the puddle of bile beside you on the rug (your wife is not going to be happy when she comes back), I'd say you're not having a good morning." Smartass Holmes was back in the room.

"And now it's even worse." The smug bastard. Just what he needed. Not. His head hurt, everything hurt. And now here to witness it was Lord Bloody Holmes and his faithful sidekick. Great.

John was looking between the two of them. Lestrade could not even be bothered to look ashamed. He just stuck with hungover and depressed. Sherlock was looking disdainfully down his nose, unimpressed. And unsurprised, of course.

"Let's get you cleaned up, Greg," John bent to heave the other man up, visibly tamping down on his own nausea as he swayed over the vomit. They staggered together across the suddenly slippery hardwood floor and up the stairs, Sherlock showed no signs of offering to assist. Bloody wanker.

"I'm not going to pry, Greg, but if you want to talk I'm listening."

Bless John. He was soft. Much too soft to be friends with a man like Holmes. Seriously, John was here, in his house, hefting him up his own staircase because his legs were shaking too much from the after effects of too much whisky downed with too many lines of cocaine. Why did he do this to himself? Why did John do this to _himself_?

"John, I just can't..." The words would not come. He needed to justify this, make his excuses, but how could he phrase his thoughts? The despair of yesterday welled up again and threatened to take over.

John understood, "I know. God, Greg, trust me I know."

"You're too good John. To him, to me..."

"You can't see the things you see everyday and not have to forget them somehow." They had reached the bathroom and John was pulling the open shirt from his Greg's shoulders. "Now, have a shower and sort your head out a bit."

Greg mutely agreed. That sounded like a grand idea to him. The shower was a little too hot, but it was what he needed. John opened the glass door a crack and handed in a toothbrush, ready-pasted. The man was a saint.

Sherlock's voice (damn him, when had he come up?) rose above the spray of water, "You do know that taking drugs occasionally is no better than regularly using? The brain fights to readjust itself when manipulated, whenever you insert, eat, snort or inject (by far the most efficient method, by the way) a foreign substance into your body. This, of course, leads to the inevitable low after the desired high. The drugs have worn off but your body is still countering their effects. Therefore, when your vice is not present you are less able to feel pleasure because the brain has dramatically reduced the production of pleasure-related chemicals. All in all –"

"Yes, thank you, Holmes, I do not need a lecture on the evils of drug abuse."

"Really, Inspector, you could have fooled me..."

Damn him for being right. He was always right.

The bathroom was too warm when he got out of the cubicle wrapped in a crumpled towel and Greg experienced a horrible hot flush of sweeping nausea. His body burned and the blood drained from his face. "Shit."

One swift glance and John assessed the situation, "Go and sit down, I'll get you some water."

Greg didn't even make it to a bed or chair, he just slid down the shower door onto the hard tiles. He saw Sherlock pass John the glass already in his hand, the significant eye contact between the pair. But he took it anyway, and took a mouthful, grimacing. "What did you spike it with?"

Sherlock eyebrow quirked, "How very observant of you, Lestrade. Don't fret, it's only a rehydration and mineral replacement solution. I find it often helps with the combined efforts of a hangover comedown."

Greg sat up then, ignoring the disgusting wooze and spin of his head. He struggled to understand. Were they in his house to _look after him_?

Sherlock's face relaxed, his eyes of ice suddenly disarmingly soft, "Drink the rest, Lestrade. The Yard has been trying to get you all night, you'll need to call in soon. Looks like it could be a good one."

And then he swept out, all coat and curls and clicking heels. John gave him a quick smile, "He's getting there."

And Greg rolled his eyes as he downed the remainder of the drink. Getting there indeed, could he not get there a little quicker?

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_Wow, thanks for all the wonderful reviews! Please, keep them coming - they really do make my day._


	6. Talking Out Loud

_**Talking out loud**__ – Sherlock prefers his imaginary John. Or does he?_

_DISCLAIMER: We all know this by now, they are not mine, thank God! Can you imagine the wreck my life would be if they were?_

* * *

"In the cupboard, John." It was not an exclamation, or a pondering enquiry. It was just ejected from Sherlock's mouth as simply as though they were mid-conversation. Possibly in his head they were. Head-John had probably asked a question. Real-John couldn't help feeling slightly honoured to be Sherlock's imaginary theory prompter so, after that first couple of conversations he had apparently participated in whilst being distinctly absent, he never complained. Even if Head-John was apparently better at it than him. But then, even Sherlock's imaginary John would be sharper than the real one, obviously, it was unavoidable.

"Oh, John, where next? What does this mean?"Sherlock was standing at the window, staring out. But even from his side-on angle John could tell those eyes were unseeing. He was somewhere else entirely – his mind palace perhaps, having a cup of tea with Head-John. And frustrated, by the sounds of it.

If Head-John was there then Real-John could sit back and carry on with his newspaper perusal. His input was not required. But just this time, out of curiousity he kept the newspaper on his lap and opened his mouth.

"Which one?" He had no idea if Sherlock would even respond. If he was listening to Head-John could Real-John even interrupt?

"Ah-ha, exactly! Which cupboard...One directly above a source of heat and moisture, if the growth patterns..." Sherlock trailed off mumbling to himself.

The newspaper rose again. Companionable silence for a few seconds. And then Sherlock was back in the room, whirling around and leaping over the coffee table towards the kitchen. He paused for an instant beside John's chair, his fingers barely touching John's arm, but touching enough.

"Thank you, John. It works much better when you're here." And a second later he was in the kitchen, studying the residue left from the kettle boiling repeatedly under a cupboard. John closed his mouth and turned back to his tabloid.

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_As always, reviews complete me. Please do..._


	7. Sharp

_**Sharp** – What's that odd buzzing sound. Oh, yes, it's Sherlock..._

_DISCLAIMER: We all know this by now, they are not mine. Can you imagine the fun I'd be having if they were?_

* * *

John's coat was dumped unceremoniously on the pile of outdoor wear behind the flat door. The coat stand was overloaded as it was and he did not intend to waste any of his remaining reserve of energy trying to jam his jacket onto it. Sherlock was home, perched stiffly on the edge of the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees, his fingers twitching in the air in front of him.

John frowned suspiciously. He was practically buzzing. Knees bouncing with ill-contained energy. A few further steps added to his concerns. His smooth forehead was damp with sweat, a condition Sherlock would never knowingly tolerate. And one look at his eyes, pupils blown wide into dark pulsating pools, confirmed John's fears. He was high as a kite on a windy autumn morning.

"Christ!"

"John?" Sherlock looked shocked to see him. He had been deep in the basements of his mind palace, apparently. He waved him away casually, swatting at him like an errant fly, "Not now."

John's own eyes narrowed. One sleeve was rolled slightly more unevenly than the other. That was surprisingly lax on the other man's part, but informed him that it was injected this time. "Where is it?"

"John, I only have approximately twelve minutes left of this. Don't ruin it with your inane questions."

John looked around, as if Sherlock would have been stupid enough to leave any other evidence that he could spot. His eyes came to rest on the note on the table. The smart italics scrawled across the expensive weighty paper. The clue, the threat, the trigger for Sherlock's momentary relapse.

"What is this, an evil genius free-for-all? You bring down one and he tag teams another?"

Sherlock seemed to ignore him, swirling a triumphant hand in the air, "What we need is a butterfly net!"

"What _I_ need is a break." John huffed and shuffled tiredly towards the kitchen, his usual determined march subdued. Apart from registering his presence and initial question Sherlock had paid no attention to him whatsoever. Or so he thought.

"It's in the bathroom light switch."

"Eh?" That was even more cryptic than usual.

"Your break." Sherlock swept from the sofa and slipped his coat on in one smooth practised movement. "A fool, this one, not a genius."

"You can't go out; you're off your face!"

"Really, do give it a rest." And he was gone.

John wrestled a chair along the hallway and used it to reach the bathroom light switch. Ridiculous really, who knew what the maniac had been talking about? If it had anything to do with butterfly nets John would eat his hat. Or he would if he owned one. Hats never really suited him.

The switch was a plastic compartment on the ceiling with a long cord hanging. The screws were easily twisted out, and as he gently lowered the cap, even _he_ had to admit the genius of the hiding place. The bag of white powder was folded carefully into the plastic shell. It was alone, there was no other paraphernalia, but it was enough for John. Why on Earth had Sherlock given this up to him? He must have more, this was probably a tiny portion of his stash and he was surrendering it to keep John happy. And quiet. He re-fixed the switch and returned the chair to the kitchen table before sitting on it and staring at the packet in front of him.

A cup of tea later he was no closer to a decision. He should dispose of it really, wash it down the sink or something. But would that be an abuse of the trust Sherlock had shown telling him of the location? Or was that what he wanted John to do, get rid of it? Though there was quite a lot of money's worth there...

"John?" Sherlock was there behind him then, looking a little worse for wear. And a tiny bit ashamed.

"Did you sort it out?"

"The note? Yes."

"With a butterfly net?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Well, erm, that was more of a metaphor really..."

John snorted, "You mean you were completely flying and had no idea what you were talking about?"

"It made sense to me at the time. And it worked, so there you are. That's what I was aiming for." Sherlock sat down opposite John and slumped his head onto his arms on the table.

"Why did you tell me where it was? Is this all of it?"

"Yes." Muffled.

"And again, why did you tell me?"John pressed.

"Because you asked. Because I knew I'd done something terrible from the look on your face and that it _mattered_ to you."Sherlock's head twisted at his words and John could tell what face he was pulling. The one that meant he thought John was ridiculous for caring.

Regardless he relaxed a little at the admission. "It does matter to me. I know you must have thought you needed it, but if you'd just been a bit more patient you would have got there without it."

Sherlock peeped up over his forearm, one eye focussing tiredly on John through a flopping curl dangling over his forehead. It was a sheepish eye, if eyes can be sheepish on their own. Then it was joined by a sheepish voice, "Actually, it was you that solved it for me."

John's eyebrows almost met his hairline.

"It was your tag-team comment..."

"And this?" John pointed to the cocaine sitting between them.

"Oh, flush the damn thing down the toilet if it pleases you, John." Sherlock sighed and closed the sheepish eye.

* * *

_Seem to be slowing down with this one a little as I get lots more ideas for other things. But will keep it going, as I am totally in love with the idea of Sherlock's little surprises..._

_Please do leave a review. Go on, you know you want to. Please? _


	8. Anger

_**Anger**** -** John feels anger. Sherlock knows this. Sherlock feels hurt. John didn't know that._

_DISCLAIMER: All this copious wonderfulness belongs to Sir A.C.D and is being borrowed legally by Messers Moftiss. I just steal, for fun. Don't own them, but I'll give them back one day, I swear! _

* * *

The stairs were slightly more unsteady below his feet than he was prepared for, and it took a few seconds for the thud of the contact between his elbow and the wall to make its way through the fog of alcohol into John's pain receptors. But when it did, boy did it smart.

"Ouch!" He sounded shocked, even to his own ears.

John was normally a happy drunk, but not today. In fact he hadn't been happy for a while and not even several pints with Lestrade had sorted that out. Not even when Greg had fallen off the edge of his chair and earned a cheer from the rest of the pub. The source of his unhappiness was still up when he finally conquered the staircase, and flicking through papers on the desk.

He attempted to look sober as he headed past the living room door and up the next set of stairs to his room. And failed. His foot missed the bottom step entirely and made an odd slipping clunking sound on the floor.

"How's Lestrade?"

He leaned heavily on the curve of the balustrade to stop and reply, "Fine. Good night."

"I'd take a drink of water up if I were you." Sherlock did not even look up, just continued his reading and flicking.

John's eyes narrowed. Or they would if he had more control over them. As it was they more like crossed, but who was looking? Certainly not Sherlock. "Sod off."

Well, he was looking then. Amusedly, sideways. With a smartass little smile on his lips. "It was only an offer of friendly advice."

"It was pateronisering." He wasn't sure that sounded quite right, but it appeared understood.

"John, if you want to inebriate yourself beyond reason and dignity, far be it from me to judge you for it." His words did not match his face though, and it only added to the eye narrowing (crossing).

"Look who's bloody talking!"

"My example was perfectly reasonable, if not _quite_ dignified." He was reading again, dismissing John.

If John could have let go of the banister he would have clenched his fists he was that angry. "Gaah, you make me so... angry!" He wished he could have come up with a slightly better word, but it would do.

"Don't start loosening that stiff upper lip now, John, you might find yourself unable to stop it."

Sherlock's detached reply was exactly what would _not_ calm John down. Even from inside his addled brain he could see he was losing it. Everything he normally kept tamped down inside was brewing, and without his usual control to wrap it back down it would bubble over, or perhaps explode. He huffed out a long breath to try and release some of the pressure, but bitter words seemed to slip out with it, past the broken seal of his lips, whizzing out into the room like air from a dying balloon.

"Why? You'll just delete whatever I say anyway. Along with everything else that could make you even slightly resemble a functioning human being. And then you'll hide back behind this _stupid_ facade of an aloof above-it-all genius instead of processing it and learning from it and maybe even feeling something. And then, oh surprise of surprises, you'll stay a stuck-up fucking prig for the rest of your miserable unloved lonely life."

His words had started to blend together towards the end, which was probably a good thing. The less anyone heard of that rant the better. Although, Sherlock, of course, had heard everything. He looked up from his case file, or whatever it was, and glared. A proper glare. And then his eyes narrowed (properly, none of that crossing nonsense). Even across the room John could see the muscle ticking in his jaw.

"Up until now I have never actually removed anything you have said to me from my memory, useless or otherwise." John could have sworn he saw something other than irritation in his expression. And it could possibly have been hurt. Sherlock was now looking anywhere but at him. The full curve of his lower lip quivered slightly, before he pursed it against its more obedient partner. His dark eyebrows furrowed, creating a deep chasm between. Yes, it was definitely hurt. His voice even broke a little as he spoke. "But I might start now."

Beer and anger are not the best mix. More often than not they end in pain, for somebody. And, John reflected through his nauseous headache the next morning, today that somebody might not be him.

* * *

_Reviews are little bundles of joy that I need right now. Please?_


	9. Compatibility

_**Compatibility** - They may not always appear it, but they are compatible. In a way. _

_DISCLAIMER: Woe is me, they are not mine. But they come and play sometimes, just for a while. _

* * *

John leaned in the kitchen doorway with his mug of tea. The main level of the flat was a mess, moreso than usual. When he had finished this cup he would do something about it. Might even brave the hoover. Sherlock was spread across the sofa, his feet up, typing furiously on John's computer. He showed no inclination to do anything about the chaos. In fact, he seemed quite content in it.

"I never dreamed I would meet you, John." That was unexpected.

"I didn't know you dreamed at all," John tossed back carelessly. There was a heavy silence and he looked up from the mess, wondering if he had missed something. He had.

"Don't be flippant," Sherlock said. He peered up from the laptop and his face was disturbingly solemn and sincere, the flat planes of his expression uplit by the screen, "I was prepared to spend my life alone and unappreciated. And then along you came and... appreciated me."

John grinned at that. Appreciating Sherlock _was_ tough sometimes. Yes, obviously the things he did were amazing and his brain was fantastic. But to appreciate the person – that took time and effort. But in the end it was undoubtedly worth it. "God, I've turned you soft!"

Sherlock pulled a face, rolling his eyes. "Hmm. And now I... share."

Looking significantly at his own laptop perched on the other man's lap, John chuckled, "No, _I_ share. You accept."

"I meant more emotionally." He frowned and typed a couple of lines. The conversation could well be finished there; Sherlock appeared occupied by his task. His brow wrinkled again. "But you're not really taking any of this in, so I'll give up and broach it another time."

"What are you doing?" John wondered if the work Sherlock was doing was influencing his conversation. Was this some kind of experiment? Was he logging John's responses? Or perhaps he was reading something about gaining the upper ground by revealing personal details and emotions. Performing a study of John's reactions to his sudden ejaculations of sentimentality. That would make sense. Emotional did not sound like Sherlock. That must be it.

"Right now, I'm in a forum discussing the benefits and pitfalls of the American electromagnetic aircraft launch system."

Or not.

Sherlock knew exactly what John was thinking. "This was not prompted by a sudden discovery. I have been pondering it for some time. Trying to pinpoint exactly why we have such a compatible friendship."

"And?" This sounded hopeful. Sounded like Sherlock might be making some emotional progress.

"I have yet to conclude," he sighed.

"How far have you got evaluating this relationship?"

Sherlock hesitated. He paused to think for a minute before eyes of ice worked down from the top of John's hair to his bare toes, flicking from side to side, thirstily drinking in every single detail they possibly could. He gave a nod, as though he had confirmed his theory. "I like you, John."

It was far enough for John. He downed the dregs of his tea and went for the vacuum.

* * *

_Just a little one this time. I love a good ol' review, the box is just there, so go on and make my day..._


	10. Careless

**_Careless_** _- A little drabble, reminding us just why sometimes they don't like each other very much._

_DISCLAIMER: Nope, still not mine. Just borrowed._

* * *

"We are in the middle of a case, John. It is thoroughly irresponsible to leave now." It was phrased calmly and sensibly. A cold opinion put forward in a cold voice.

"She needs me."

"What did she do when you were abroad?"

"She had Clara then," John ran an exasperated hand through his already mussed hair, "She called me, I can't just say no."

"Yes you can." Sherlock had yet to look up from his microscope. He slowly turned a knob and frowned slightly, before twisting it the other way. John knew he wished everything was that easily manipulated. People were something Sherlock could predict, but not always control. "If you don't mind, John, I have more important things to think about right now than your drunkard sister summoning you to extract her from whatever mess she has gotten herself into this time."

John growled and resisted the urge, just, to clap him around the head. It was a sound he had never really made before he met his flatmate, but found becoming more commonplace now. "You don't care at all, do you?"

It was a stupid question. He wished he hadn't voiced it out loud, because he could predict the answer already.

A half-hearted shrug. "Not really, no."

* * *

_Reviews, as always, greatly appreciated... _


	11. Half Life

_AN: Two in one day, aren't I kind! The last one was so tiny and not very friendly, so I thought I'd lighten the tone a little with a more reassuring image of their friendship. _

_**Half**** Life** - The last night of The Hounds of Baskerville. _

_DISCLAIMER: The only thing I own about this story is the nonsense. All the best bits, the characters, the story that is alluded to belongs to Sir A.C.D and Messrs Moftiss. I can only hope they don't mind me poking it around a bit._

* * *

After three hours of interviews and paperwork, Lestrade finally managed to convince the police to just let them go and get some rest. John was looking forward to his bed, and doing some of that sleeping he had fantasised about for days. But it still was not meant to be, not just yet.

It had taken twice as long as they thought to get Henry home and into bed. In the end it had taken John looking over the packet of tranquillisers in the kitchen cupboard and deciding on the spur of the moment that a new dosage was necessary. John, ever the selfless responsible one, was willing to stay with him and keep an eye. But Lestrade overruled him, pulling him to one side and pointing out that Sherlock was a lot harder to keep an eye on and would he mind doing that one instead?

It was fair, he supposed. None of them should be alone. And after seeing the effects of that drug on his friends and just quite how much they had ingested it was fair to assume there might be a couple of complications that evening. He hadn't quite counted on his own reactions. There were so many shadows to jump at. And when he finally got to bed just a tickle of the duvet had images of bugs crawling all over him. It took all his effort not to leap around the room squealing and flinging them off.

"Oh, for crying out bloody loud." The exclamation was louder than he had intended. Great. Now Sherlock would know of his troubles. That could be unbearable.

"It'll pass soon, John." Or not. Always a surprise, Sherlock sounded strangely understanding.

"Not soon enough." He huffed onto his back and stared into the darkness. The coving in the top corner above his head was just earning a degree of focus when a door shut somewhere down the hall. The low old building carried noise far too well for a respectable inn and they had cursed it more than once over the last few days. Never more than now. The slightly metallic rasp and click repeated in John's head, morphing into something a lot more terrifying and logic disappeared in a flash.

He was out of bed with gun in hand, butt naked save for his boxers, before Sherlock had even anticipated the movement. Quiet voices echoed into shouts of old days he wished long forgotten and adrenaline pounded, probably circulating the hallucinogen along with it.

"John," Sherlock's calm voice was beside him in an instant. "It's fine, it's all fine. It's just the drug. Nothing is going on. Remember. Fear and stimulus. John, listen to me."

John could still hear the distant rattle of gunfire, the crackle of the radio behind him, a wretched whisper of a desperate soldier in his ear. It was a struggle to believe Sherlock with his battle hackles well up. The low urgent tones beside him slowly penetrated his conscious beyond doubt and he clung on to Sherlock's voice for his life. The gun bearing hand dropped to his side and John turned to him, begging, barely holding back a sob. "Why is it still going on? When will it stop?"

"I don't know. It won't last, now we are out of direct contact, it will fade. I had a vague idea of the half-life factors earlier, but the aerosol dispersant factor has thrown that out of the window." Sherlock's level reassuring voice was accompanied by fingers caressing down John's lowered arm, stroking and soothing and tactfully removing the firearm.

John sighed, feeling more than a little stupid, "I need a drink."

The bar was long closed; the bathroom tap would have to do. He gulped down water from the provided glass until the swooshing feeling in his stomach was beyond uncomfortable. It was a tame sort of masochism, the faint twinge of pain reassuring him that reality was present. When he slipped back into bed the gun was back under his pillow. He hadn't known Sherlock knew of its presence there, and certainly hadn't expected him to put it back. That was a level of trust he was not sure he deserved.

"Goodnight John."

"I hope you sleep well, Sherlock," he meant it. Somebody had to.

A shout woke him in the night, a few times, and once he sat up in time to see Sherlock's arm flail in the darkness. Apparently John wasn't the only one with nightmares tonight. But his roommate was immediately silent again every time, so John let himself sink back into the mattress and allowed the sleep to float back over him.

When he woke in the morning he was pinned against the wall by a long hot body behind him. It was more of a surprise than it should have been. When Sherlock did sleep, he slept like the dead and it was no difficulty for John to clamber over him and escape to empty his bursting bladder without waking him. He was unconscious, silent and still, when John returned and got dressed. He gave in to a little paranoia and felt gently for a pulse. And then laughed at himself, of course he was fine.

The matter had been skirted over at breakfast, with talk of the drug wearing off. But it was not until they were well alone on the journey home that Sherlock gave John a long look.

"What?"

"Thank you. For ..."

"Sherlock, after you stopped me from shooting down half the hotel in the middle of the night, the least I could do is allow you a little mattress space."

"Yes, but the duvet was an extra kindness."

John laughed. "I don't think that was quite so freely given."

* * *

_Thanks for reading. Please review if it offered a few minutes entertainment..._


	12. Smile

_AN: As I have said before, these are just one-shots and drabbles and run in no particular chronological order. I thought I should point it out again, just in case this ends in any confusion..._

_**Smile** __- John smiles a lot, for many different reasons._

_DISCLAIMER: Not mine, far too much trouble. Though I would make them a cup of tea if they asked nicely._

* * *

"Are you going to tell me what is the matter with you today or are you leaving me to explore possibilities and arrive at a conclusion of my own?"

"I said I'm fine, Sherlock." John wants to insist, but knows any stress in his voice will only lessen the meaning of his words. And that will most definitely be picked up.

"In our as yet fairly limited acquaintance I have witnessed and logged 118 different smiles of John Watson, albeit with numerous variances. And while I have yet to decipher the meaning and sentiment behind all of them, I am fairly certain the knowledge provides me with the ability to determine a false one."

"You've counted my smiles?" John is not sure whether to believe him.

"Correct. I've also studied them, examined them and attempted to pinpoint their causes. I predict it will enable more effective communication in the future."

John doesn't know whether to be honoured or concerned. It could be perceived as creepy, but he is pretty sure it is a compliment. He may have known Sherlock less than a month, but he has swiftly discovered the detective's general disdain for other people's emotions. For him to notice John's is a sign of high regard, to learn about them is... He doesn't actually know what that is.

"Number sixty-eight. Symmetrical curve, dipped brow, slight wrinkling of left eye. You are reluctantly flattered."

John shakes his head and looks away.

"Three. Left side of mouth marginally higher, basic dimples formed, no eye contact, slow shake of head. Fond exasperation, slightly amused."

John laughs then, what else can he do? "How are they numbered? In the order you have seen them?"

"Seventeen. Open mouthed, mobile, major contraction of the obicularis oculi resulting in crinkled eyes and rounded cheeks. Genuine mirth. And no, they are numbered according to the frequency of their appearance. Or rather the frequency with which they come to my attention – I observe, I do not stalk."

"And the winner is?"

"Slight curve of wide lips, minor lowering of eyelids, most commonly accompanied by a single exhalation through the nostrils. All pointing to gentle amusement. Though it is not a communicative tool, and is mostly involuntary and quite often shown when you are thinking only to yourself. Number one... And there it is."

He could feel the expression on his face, exactly as described. Sherlock smiled then, and John wished he knew what it meant. He might have to start a study of his own.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. Wow, good on you for making it this far! Reviews greatly appreciated..._


	13. Bad for You

_**Bad for You**___** - **_What is?_

_DISCLAIMER: None of them are mine. Shame. _

* * *

John could smell it before he even got halfway up the stairs. Smoke. He had a moment of concern, where his knees propelled him slightly faster up the steps, but with a deeper inhalation the scent clarified in his conscious. It was not burning smoke, warning of fire and disaster, it was cigarette smoke, warning of bored detective.

"I thought you were giving up." John felt his eye twitch. The act of opening the door pulled a cloud of smoke in his direction. It was more than irritation, but not quite rage. He took off his coat and went into the kitchen.

"I was. Then I stopped. I decided I like it. And the stimulant effects of nicotine are particularly beneficial to the thought process. Pros and cons, as you sometimes put it."

"It is... very bad for you." He called through to the other room. There was no point going into specifics. It was a certainty that any medical knowledge and related arguments would already have been explored and discarded. He moved to the doorway while he waited for the kettle to boil.

"Oh, sing a new song John, something fresh and inspired. Just because something is '_very bad for you',_" Sherlock employed mocking finger quotes just to annoy him, "Does not mean you would be better off without it."

John raised a sceptical eyebrow, "I rather think it does."

Sherlock only hummed in response, rather pointedly finishing the cigarette, letting it burn right down to the filter, before flicking the butt out of the window. John assumed the subject was dropped, and that nobody had won.

"Did you know, John, that since meeting you and commencing our... partnership of sorts, threats on my life have increased substantially, perhaps by 125%."

"125?" John had no idea where this was going, but it didn't look good.

"I could be more specific," Sherlock waved a careless hand in the air, gesticulating lazily, "But the relevant points of our conversation would have dulled in your slow mind somewhat by the time I could arrive at a more accurate figure. If you also take into account major injuries; broken bones, lacerations requiring stitches and sprains necessitating medical attention my point becomes even more pronounced and rather interesting, if I may so."

"Say so if you like... What point?

Sherlock looked frustrated that John had not followed him. "By a simple matter of comparison one must conclude that _you_ are bad for me. Fortunately for both of us, I do not agree with your rather simple opinion and, as yet, have no inclination to give _you_ up."

John smiled. _Touché._ "Tea?"

* * *

_Thanks for reading. And thank you to all the lovely reviewers! _


	14. Birthday Suit

_**Birthday Suit**_ - _no, not like that! _

_DISCLAIMER: Don't own. Don't steal either, just borrow, honest._

* * *

"Good day at work, John?"

Sherlock was sat at the kitchen table, still in his pyjamas, leisurely perusing a scientific journal. John couldn't help the twinge of irritation, even at the polite enquiry. It had been a tedious day at work, which Sherlock had no doubt deduced from the silence. His flatmate was watching him curiously from the corner of his eye, probably blissfully ignorant of John's_ main_ reason for irritation. Or, perhaps not.

"Present is in your room."

"I thought you didn't do birthday presents? That's what you said..." John was totally unashamedly rubbish at hiding his pleasure. He was delighted Sherlock had actually remembered.

"I don't, as such. The idea of _birthday presents_ is absurd. Celebrating the loss of a year of one's life – I don't understand the purpose. Is the tradition some sort of consolation gift?"

"It's a celebration of _gaining_ a year of life." John struggled for a moment, thinking for a way to explain it and then gave up. "You are so morbid!"

"So, a sort of congratulations for surviving gift? Well done for not dying this year?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. Even with his skewed sense of sentiment that didn't sit well.

"Well, why did you buy it?" Surely that might help. He must have thought of something when he picked out a gift. If it even _was_ a gift and not just something of John's previously stolen and now returned under the guise of a present. That wasn't so unlikely. Maybe it would be his old photo album that had mysteriously disappeared from the bookshelf in his room, he'd quite like that back, or even that Rolling Stones t-shirt that had gone missing a few weeks ago.

"Buy what?"

For a second Sherlock looked so mystified John wondered if he had had the whole conversation with himself in his head. Was it catching, the imagined conversations? "Whatever is in my room. The surprise."

"Oh. That."

Curiouser and curiouser. John almost dreaded to think what it might be. He hoped it wasn't something dead...

"Well, it's only a surprise because I thought you might appreciate the suspenseful anticipation of discovery."

Oh God, it was something dead.

"It's a practical gift," Sherlock's tone was an attempt at reassurance, he must have seen some of John's concern in his expression. "Something you may require for the coming evening's activities."

What on Earth? There had better not be some awful stake-out scheduled for the evening of his birthday. He had been looking forward to a night on the sofa with a good movie, a bad Chinese and a few too many cold beers.

"I hadn't actually thought of it as a birthday present until this conversation started." Sherlock admitted.

"So we're going out?"

"Yes. In twenty minutes, so you'd better get a move on.'

"For my birthday?" John stood from his perch on the back of his armchair and headed for his bedroom.

"Well, erm..." Sherlock must have seen John's face drop. "Yes?"

So no then. But bless him for trying.

John cautiously opened his bedroom door, afraid of what might jump out at him. It all appeared as it should be. Until he turned to his wardrobe. Hanging on the front was a suit. He frowned. A suit?

"Where are we going?" he called.

"Out." Sherlock's reply came from the bottom of the stairs. He had presumably moved to hear John's reaction.

Not just any suit. A rather stunning midnight-blue ensemble, a fine wool blend, single breasted, double buttoned with silk notched lapels. The kind of suit John had never dreamed of owning, never dreamed he would need to own. He could see from ten paces that it was worth a ridiculous amount of money, and from one pace and a quick check of the label (Armani!) he would estimate well over a thousand pounds, possibly nearer two if you counted the shirt, plus the tie and cufflinks in the bag slung over the coathanger.

"Where are we going?" He repeated the question, hoping for elaboration.

"It's a dinner suit, John, so one would assume we are going out for dinner."

"But not for my birthday...?"

The shirt was a pleasure to put on. Crisp white cotton, soft to the touch, perfectly fitted. He couldn't keep the smile from his face, it was nice to be spoiled. The trousers didn't disappoint either, just the right length, tight enough to not need a belt, but not tight enough to let him dwell on the inch he had gained around the midriff over the last six months. It was a struggle to master the cufflinks; it had been a while, but he got there in the end. He wasn't even going to attempt the tie – it was a real one and if he was honest he had never got the hang of the bow.

"Not even Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers has his birthday bash at Buckingham Palace. But if you like I can have a quiet word and see if they can dig out a cake and candles and muster the crowd to sing for you?"

John laughed. Hang on, Buckingham Palace?! He ran a hand over his rough jaw and wished he had time for a shower and a shave. Bloody pain in the arse idiot giving him less than half an hour warning. He heard him moving through the flat downstairs, presumably to get himself ready.

Sherlock was changed when John got back downstairs, and looking enviably easily smart in his own dinner jacket and fitted trousers. His hair was deliberately teased and curled and swept back from his face. He looked a little surprised when he turned from the window at John's approach.

"Oh." His eyebrow quirked, "Smart suits you."

John tried not to glow at the compliment and held up the tie in a pitiful plea. Sherlock smirked a little, but took it from him wordlessly. He flicked up Johns collar and tucked the slip of fabric around his neck efficiently.

"How did you get it to fit so well?" John asked, wondering if he actually wanted to know. Invasion of his privacy was not something that went down well at the best of times. Standing this close he could taste the sandalwood and lime tang of Sherlock's cologne. The fingers at his throat worked diligently, teasing the silk over and under itself.

"I have been looking at you every day for almost a year now, John, I know every inch of you. With that kind of knowledge, tailoring a suit is not a problem in the slightest. Picking out the best one to suit you on the other hand took a little more effort."

"And may I ask why we are going to Buckingham Palace?" John was a little honoured, if he was honest, that Sherlock had taken the time to go shopping for him and actually cared about what he looked like at the end.

"You may. My _darling_ brother," the twist of his lips showed what he really thought of his sibling, "Has dragged me into some lordly function or other. And I'm certainly not going on my own. Luckily Mycroft has some sense and predicted that, so the invitation included a plus one."

"Will the Queen be there?!" Oh, god he was going to meet the queen and he hadn't shaved. He was getting a bit old for the designer stubble look. This was a nightmare.

"Undoubtedly, at some point. Don't worry, she doesn't bite, and she's unlikely to remember you name, let alone notice your five o'clock shadow." He stood back and examined his handiwork. It proved satisfactory. He was clearly a little apprehensive of the next question, even Sherlock had to admit it had been a risk buying John an entire outfit and expecting him to wear it without argument. "So you like the suit?"

"God, it's like... Suit _porn_, Sherlock. I got a bit turned on looking at it on the hanger."

Sherlock laughed, a real belly laugh, and adjusted the tie again. He turned serious. "I did wonder if you might prefer to wear your dress uniform..."

John realised he hadn't even thought of it. And he was glad. The thought of pulling that out of the closet, slipping himself into it and fastening all the old familiar buttons was almost depressing. "Not tonight. It's my birthday."

"It is." He smiled and squeezed John's shoulder fondly, "Happy birthday."

* * *

_Sorry, it's been a while, but I'm back now! Please review..._


	15. Opportunity

_**Opportunity**__- John knows how to take advantage of one. Sherlock is still grateful._

_DISCLAIMER: The characters are not mine, although I do wish I was invited to tea parties and merry little soirees at 221b. Read on, you'll understand._

_Written in a rush and unbeta-ed so let me know if you spot anything dreadful!_

* * *

The front door was open. Never a good sign. John entered warily, listening for any sounds of distress. It was silent. There was no signs of a scuffle in the hall or on the stairs. And no sounds of movement whatsoever. Also not good.

"Sherlock?" He whispered cautiously, jogging up the stairs.

He poked a head around the living room door for a moment, trying to take in as much information as possible before he shot back behind the shelter of the wall. There were obvious clues of disturbance, even through the normal chaos. Papers that should be stacked were scattered across the floor, an overturned music stand by the window, a small splatter of blood on the corner of the coffee table. John wished he could analyse the scene as thoroughly as Sherlock would, but right now at least he could ensure the lack of any assailants likely to attack.

He could still hear nothing, and he reached out a foot to nudge to door open fully. Still nothing. The flat appeared deserted.

"John?" Or not. Sherlock's voice came from the direction of the kitchen. John could taste his own relief burning on his tongue.

"Is it safe?"

"If you didn't meet anybody on your way up."

"What happened?" John finally entered the room and tried not to wince at the state of the place. Sherlock was sat in the entrance to the kitchen, looking bored. John could tell from the strained position and his arms tucked behind him that he was tied at the wrist. He had been punched a few times too – there was the clear imprint of knuckles on his jaw and cheek and the skin had split above his eye.

"I invited the neighbours over for a tea party and a merry little soiree." He raised an eyebrow, "Mrs Jennings wasn't too fond of the éclairs."

"And it went downhill from there?" Realising he wasn't going to get a straight answer, John knelt to examine the cut on his eyebrow. It was small and clean and wouldn't require any particular attention. His fingers gently turned Sherlock's face one way and the other to check for anything he'd missed. He reached down and checked his ribs. There was a flinch at his gentle prodding, so he'd had some impact there too.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Untying me would be good."

John stood. He couldn't help smiling. Sherlock was well and truly stuck and completely at his mercy. "Let me think what I can get out of this first..."

"I'm losing the feeling in my fingers, John."

John grinned manically. This was a fantastic opportunity. "The eyeballs. Out."

"Which ones?"

"The ones in the salad drawer."

"Why?"

"I'd like to put salad in it."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, as if it was the most preposterous idea in the world to use a container for its original purpose. "You don't eat salad."

"I might one day!"

"Fine," he huffed grudgingly.

"And I'd like some of my socks back." He paused to think what else he could con out of him in this situation. How far was too far? Could he take a photo? Maybe that was a bit of an abuse of trust. Sherlock had waited for him to return, knowing that he would help.

"Fine." Another grumble and a sigh. Sherlock wriggled his fingers and strained against his bonds again.

"And you need to empty the bio-hazard waste bin."

"It's not full."

"It stinks!"

Sherlock may have growled, but he nodded.

"And–"

"Severe loss of circulation here, John. Restriction of blood flow. Numb left buttock. Quite uncomfortable."

"Well, if you will go and get yourself tied up."

"I didn't do it deliberately!"

John crossed behind him and assessed the knots. He had no chance, if Sherlock couldn't untie them behind his back with his wrists restricted, John had very little chance with free hands and a full view. He could see the abrasions where Sherlock had struggled, he had been here a while.

"I'll have to cut them," he reached over to open the cutlery drawer and grab a serrated knife.

The nylon cords were tough and tight, and it was an effort to saw through them without nicking any skin. The ropes were wound around each wrist and knotted separately before twisting back around the chair and knotting again. Whoever had tied him had known, or discovered, how easily Sherlock could slip most bonds. He ran a finger lightly across Sherlock's open palm, but there was no reaction to the tickle. It would appear he truly had lost feeling.

"This is going to hurt," John warned, "I'm going to cut this last rope and the blood is going to rush back in."

"Yes." He already knew that, of course. At the last cuts and release he hissed and closed his eyes at the pain. He rubbed instinctively at his wrists and puffed at the burn, annoyed more than anything. "Ouch, that bloody _smarts_!"

"Right, if we are in no immediate danger from Mrs Jenkins, I'd like a shower and a cup of tea before I clear this mess up."

"Mrs Jennings. And I'll do it."

John whipped back around at that. "Have you got a concussion? Any dizziness or confusion?" He asked suspiciously.

Sherlock shrugged and tucked the chair back under the table, "It's my mess John, I'll do it. You did rescue me after all."

"Oh-kay..." He wasn't arguing with that. He decided to try pushing his luck. "Can you run the hoover round while you're at it?"

"No, I'm not a maid!"

* * *

_Read and review if you please. More updates on the way! _


	16. Caring

**_Caring_**_ - Sherlock can be, in his own way. Poor John._

_DISCLAIMER: As always, I own zilch. Not even the bucket or the curses._

**_Warning! Fairly distasteful conversation ahead... _**_(just for you sensitive readers out there) - And thanks GoodOldJames, for the pointer._

* * *

A soothing hand rubbed the top of John's back, caressing a trail between his shoulder blades and relaxing the stiffly coiled muscles. The soft skin was cool enough and steady enough not to stick to his damp flesh. John was jealous of it.

"Any other symptoms?" A gentle rumble beside his ear, at a not quite respectable distance considering how he'd just been hurling up his guts.

John took the proffered tissue and swiped the traces of vomit from the corners of his mouth. He frowned suspiciously; Sherlock was being too caring. It wasn't right. It made him uncomfortable. Had he...?

"I haven't poisoned you, don't worry."

He showed no offence at the silent accusation. In fact, he looked fairly inspired, as though it was a fantastic idea to perhaps be developed at a later date. If not guilt, then what? Why was his flatmate beside him on the sofa, holding a bucket of his sick and rubbing his back?

"Symptoms...? Diarrhoea? Vomiting? Any kind of rash anywhere?" He flattened the back of his hand against John's sweaty forehead, "You feel a little warm. Feverish?"

"No. Please take the sick away."

The smell was making him feel even worse. He was well and truly ill. There was a worrying strain of _Campylobacter_ circulating, he had seen a few cases at work, but this was more nausea than dysentery. He could feel the roiling in his stomach now, and the tang in his mouth, promising of yet more to come. Something he had eaten perhaps? Or picked up around Sherlock and his questionable experiments and dead body parts?

John watched with a sort of disgusted acceptance as Sherlock walked to the kitchen, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves with a practiced ease and proceeded to collect samples of the bucket contents in small stoppered test tubes. He placed them carefully in a stand before swilling the remainder down the sink with copious amounts of bleach. John would have preferred it to go down the toilet, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Sherlock returned to his samples, bending to the level of the table to examine the contents. He made a quiet contemplative humming noise as he compared two tubes together.

"Must you?" John flopped back onto the cushions, wincing and peeling his bare sweaty back from the leather.

"Any chance of a stool sample too?"

"No." Pure and simple.

"I'll take it if you like?" Sherlock was swirling the contents of a test tube curiously in front of his face.

"Fuck off." John snapped, not noticing the new presence of Lestrade in the doorway, "You are not fiddling with my poo, you disgusting git. Your current stash of my bodily excretions will just have to do. And don't even think about doing anything with them while I'm lying here suffering."

"Evening lads," Lestrade chirruped, "Don't mean to interrupt what appears to be a charming domestic evening in, Mrs Hudson let me up. I have a lead that might need an extra pair of eyes or two."

"Take him!" John pleaded, "Please, take him away."

"Right. You not up to it? I did wonder about the shite conversation..."

"I'll be fine. Just need some peace and quiet. And the bucket over here. And for Sherlock to wash his hand before he goes anywhere."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but conceded and did it. He eased on his coat at the end of the sofa, kicking the bucket in John's direction. John was just relaxing with the prospect of being alone for a while, when Sherlock spun around in the doorway, resting his fingertips gently on John's bare foot, "I've got my phone if you need me."

"Erm, thanks..." That was an unexpected gesture. He didn't quite know how to take it. He was still frowning confusedly when Sherlock followed Lestrade down the stairs.

Sherlock paused at the front door and John heard him call, "I really would appreciate that stool sample, John..."

He closed his eyes in resignation. His friend was trying to care in his own little way, he realised. And if he was honest, it was rather touching.

* * *

_A.N. - Wow, just needed to say thanks for all the reviews! So many, and so many follows and favourites. It may be impossible to understand quite how happy it makes me to know people enjoy reading these bits of nonsense I imagine up. So thank you, and please, continue!_


	17. Experimental Security Measures

_**Experimental Security Measures**_- _Like it says on the tin. With a surprise._

_DISCLAIMER: __Certainly not mine. They are far too ill-behaved. _

* * *

"Sherlock?" Not in the living room.

"Sherlock?" Or the kitchen.

"Sherlock? Hello?" The bathroom was empty too.

John stomped through to Sherlock's closed bedroom door. He heard a sound from within. The bugger may hide, but there was no way he was getting away with it this time. It was the last straw – Mrs Hudson was practically cowering in her kitchen. She had called John, worried about the noises emitting from upstairs. Gunshots, she said, and explosions. But Sherlock was fine, he had reassured her down the stairs, just experimenting. She had called John anyway – this was a bit too much, even for her to put up with.

"What the hell is going on?!" He called, and reached for the door handle.

"You can't come in!"

"I bloody well can!" he grunted back and twisted the knob. He wasn't getting away with it that easily. They would get evicted one day, if the flat wasn't blown up first.

"John! No! Don't–"

The warning cry was cut off as John flung the door open. He dropped to the ground instinctively at the disturbing sound of a click and whizz. Good job he had too, because on the way down came the horrifically familiar noise of a gun firing and the all too terrifying whistle of a bullet shooting past his ear, the resistance of the air burning his skin for a split second before the cool draft tailed it.

"What the..." John raised his head to look behind him, checking no one else was there to be shot at before looking back at his bastard of a flatmate.

"Hmmm. _Still_ an inch or two off..." Sherlock was padding around barefoot in only a pair of trousers, with tangled hair and ink-stained fingers, looking every inch the mad scientist. He fiddled with a contraption opposite the door, which was apparently connecting a gun, via a wire and complicated latching mechanism, to the round doorknob.

"You shot at me?!" He was still lying on the floor.

"Technically, John, you shot at yourself."

"I don't believe –" He stopped himself there, because he did believe it. That Sherlock would rig up a pistol to shoot at anyone who opened the door. And not think to inform anyone who might open it. "Why?"

"Experimental security measures, John. After the Adler safe situation I was inspired."

"That was months ago!"

"Inspiration rarely ages, John."

John's eyes narrowed, before he sighed. What was the point? "You need to take into account the horizontal movement the opening door will have on the cord and the subsequent jarring of the entire mechanism." He heaved himself up.

Sherlock's face lit up, "John, you are brilliant. I knew you would come through, you always do."

"Just warn me next time. Bullets are not happy surprises."

* * *

_See that little box down there... That is what fuels my fingers. So stick a little review in just for me. Tell me you like me, or break it to me gently if you don't. Cheers._


	18. Married

_**Married -** Just why is Sherlock here?_

_DISCLAIMER: All this copious wonderfulness belongs to Sir A.C.D and is being borrowed legally by Messers Moftiss. I just steal, for fun. Don't own them, but I make them tea and biscuits if they ask._

* * *

It was quite possibly the worst thing John could have seen. Sherlock Holmes. In the same restaurant as him and his current dating partner, Selena. Striding through the tables whilst reading his phone. Heading straight for them.

Selena looked at John, obviously already suspecting who their new company was from the warning he had given her two dates ago. _If you see a tall thin guy with dark hair and a big coat looking in our direction – tell me._ She had been puzzled at the time. He had tried to form a suitable explanation in his mind, one that wouldn't put her off, but had given up in the end and just told her. _He's my flatmate. He likes to ruin my social life. He's a bit... special. _

"Erm, Sherlock... I'm kind of busy." He gestured towards his date, as if it would make any difference.

Sherlock gave Selena a swift look, down and then up. He shrugged, dismissing her, "Married."

Selena clearly heard him (he hadn't made any attempt to hush his voice) and gave an affronted gasp, "Widowed actually!"

John closed his eyes. There was rude, offensive, and then just Sherlock. He topped the charts. The poor woman. John hadn't known she had lost a husband, but it wasn't exactly an easy subject to broach; death of a close loved one. And they were only out for the third time. She looked like she might cry. Could this get any worse?

Sherlock made a 'pffft' sound, "And a liar."

Apparently it could get worse. He sent Sherlock a past-warning glance and turned to apologise profusely to his date. She just looked at him like they were both going to get a slap.

"_Liar_?! You absolute wankers."

"Not even a good liar," Sherlock continued casually, "Make an effort."

Selena stood then and John winced, anticipating the sound of flesh on flesh. It did not come. She just grabbed her coat from the back of her chair and stalked out of the restaurant, much to the interest of the other diners.

"Really? Did you have to?"

"I had no idea you had got desperate enough to chase married women, John."

_John_ was tempted to slap him then. He stopped himself and just slipped his jacket on and dumped a couple of tenners on the table to cover the uneaten food. "What is it now? Lestrade? Case? General boredom?"

Sherlock hesitated, not bothering to look away, his grey eyes wide. And then John knew. There was nothing. Just him on a date.

"You bastard."

* * *

_End. For now._


	19. Photography

_**Photography - **Sometimes Sherlock doesn't even have to be there to surprise John. A little sentimental piece, apologies in advance for how soppy I am feeling. Inspired by the story cover picture of Mr. Freeman and Mr. Cumberbatch on set (which isn't mine, I don't know who it belongs to - if it's yours PM me and I'll tell everyone!)._

_DISCLAIMER: Still not mine, though I'm not sorry I keep stealing them._

* * *

John never had many reasons to visit Sherlock's room. In fact, after the incident with the 'experimental security measures', he avoided the act as much as possible. And today it was only after he had searched the rest of the flat (including the fridge) for his mysteriously absent laptop, that he resigned himself to it and creaked open the door cautiously with his foot.

There were no explosions or gunfire or even dodgy smells emitted from within, so he peeked his head around the doorframe. Silence. And... _tidiness_?!

He was so shocked at the out of place order, the actual spick and span-ness of the room that he paused for a few seconds. After the momentary gobsmacked hesitation he spotted his laptop on the bed; the only cluttered surface in the room. It sat amongst a scattering of papers and books, with two post-its scrawled in familiar script adhered to the closed top.

_J,_

_Don't delete the folder named 'Bracketing'._

_S_

And underneath...

_In fact, don't even __open__ it._

John had no intention of opening an unfamiliar folder on his computer, not after the last time. But it was strangely considerate of his flatmate to warn him for once. He could only hope there wasn't something too dreadful saved to his hard-drive. He scooped up the computer, careful not to disturb any papers, in case they were organised in some specific order and turned to leave. It was only as he gave the tidy room once last disbelieving sweep of eyes when he noticed something even more odd.

Tucked in the corner of the mirror was a photo. It looked odd and out of place above the otherwise symmetrically furnished wall. He took a step closer, curious, focussing on the captured image.

It was an unfamiliar picture to him, though he could remember it being taken, long ago...

The pair of them stood outside the Cross Keys Inn at Grimpen, the warm spring sunshine breathing down on their heads, the sweet smelling floral hanging baskets swaying in the breeze. After the conclusion of the Baskerville case, Sherlock and John had paused for a second at Greg's request, for him to snap a quick photo of them on his phone. As if they were just a bunch of friends on holiday together. John supposed they had been, in their own odd way. He had slung a casual arm around Sherlock's shoulder and grinned, as you do, but had long since forgotten the moment, had never seen the result of the pose, until now.

John had been looking at the scratched black back casing of Greg's phone at the time, not at Sherlock, but he had assumed the detective's face would be looking away, sullen and annoyed at being asked to wait for such a pedestrian act, rolling his eyes even. A photo, with no use other than for sentimental value, how ridiculous.

But no, he too was looking at the camera, and _smiling_.

John wondered how long the print had been there, the edges carefully threaded into the frame of the mirror, the two friends embracing and grinning out at the room. He fingered the edge of the paper fondly, before crossing the room and closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

* * *

_See? Soppy? Warned you. Reviews are lovely little pieces of joy, please indulge me..._


	20. Routines

**_Routine_** - _John can be surprising too, sometimes._

_DISCLAIMER: Nope, none of them are mine. _

* * *

John showed not a flicker of surprise as Sherlock simply dropped the towel onto the back of the chair and stood naked as the day he was born, pausing to gesticulate with one hand and jot down some numbers with the other. The waving hand stilled to reach for a balled-up pair of socks from the pile of clean laundry on the arm of the sofa.

"If the cipher is based on the original algorithm, it can only contain digits," he growled impatiently into the phone. The socks were not cooperating; they stayed stubbornly tangled together, fiercely fighting the determined efforts of Sherlock's fingers.

John watched him flap them frustratedly in the air for a good six seconds before taking pity on him and snatching them from his hand. They could be ready a lot quicker this way and time was of the essence. He separated the pair and handed one over, looking patiently out of the kitchen window at the darkness and not at Sherlock struggling to wrestle it on one handed while breaking a code on the back of a takeout menu. The act was designed to protect John's modesty, rather than Sherlock's distinct lack of.

"Yes, yes, but this _isn't _the last case. It is unlikely he will deviate this time, if all is going as designed."

John silently sorted carefully through the folded clothes and retrieved a pair of black boxer-briefs and threw them to his flatmate. They offered less resistance than the sock and were on in seconds.

"The car was the only difference. That is not enough." Sherlock held his hand out expectantly and snatched the other sock immediately as it was offered. "I'll find out when we speak to the suspect's wife. We'll be there in thirty minutes, will you?"

John shook out a pair of trousers. They had been pressed, but then they had also been in the pile waiting to be hung in a wardrobe for three days, so they weren't as crumple free as they could have been. He handed them over and headed for the bathroom, emerging seconds later with a ready-pasted toothbrush. He put his own shoes on while Sherlock brushed his teeth over the kitchen sink, glad that his fingers knew what they were doing when his brain was too preoccupied with exhaustion.

A quiet laugh escaped him at the sight of his flatmate still talking to Lestrade, spitting white foam, trying to brush his teeth and write and hold the phone at the same time. The great mind was perfectly capable of mastering all, but the human body was disagreeing.

John was ready; he had only to slip his jacket on as they left. He doubted they would find a taxi at this time in the morning, so he was preparing himself for a long walk. The thirty minutes stated would give them just enough time to trek to the suspect's home, not a coincidence. He had only had three hours sleep, and Sherlock had only had three coffees and a shower, but it was time to be off again. Serial killers didn't often keep to sociable hours.

"How did you know?" Sherlock was finished on the phone and slipping his arms into a shirt.

"Huh?" Not an intelligent noise, but hey, it was four in the morning.

"The order," he snapped, eyes flashing, "You knew it."

John understood immediately what he was referring to; left sock, boxers, right sock, trousers, brush teeth, shirt. It had only taken a few weeks of living together to notice Sherlock had some _strange_ routines and rules. The strict organisation of the books on the shelf in the living room, for one thing, which made no alphabetical or categorical sense to anyone except Sherlock – John never even attempted to slide a book into a space anymore, he just left it on the edge of the shelf for his flatmate to do later. There always had to be a millimetre border on his toast between butter and crust – they could not touch, and must not be consumed until the first cup of coffee had been drained, even if it had been left standing and had ended up stone cold. Then the odd order of clothing himself – no variations, the socks never went on together and, even if he was getting changed for the fifth time in one day (which had happened more than once), the teeth were still cleaned between trousers and shirt. After a year together the various quirks rarely bothered John, in fact he hardly even noticed them anymore.

The doctor in him wanted to diagnose something, but the friend in him wondered what the point would be and battled against it. Sherlock had few secrets, and those were locked carefully away. Revealing that he not only had the key in his pocket, but knew the alarm code off by heart was just not what John did. No matter how many times Sherlock flaunted his own set of keys in everybody's faces at the first opportunity.

"John?"Sherlock was dressed, shod and coated. He held out John's coat, open for him slip his arms into. John was not fooled by the bland expression on his face; he could see the tension in the white knuckles gripped around the black collar of the jacket, the slight shift in his gaze.

"What order?" John shrugged carelessly and shoved his arms in to let Sherlock lift it to his shoulders, "Come on, it's a long walk."

Sherlock followed him, with wide surprised eyes and wordless parted lips.

* * *

_Still here. Still going. Still like reviews ;o)_


	21. Insults

_**Insults **- There are far too many of the things bandied about. John hates it. Sherlock doesn't care, does he?_

_Usual disclaimers apply. Not mine. No profit. *sob* _

* * *

"What's twisted your knickers today?"

Sherlock sent John a look of utter disdain, lips pursed, brow furrowed. A lesser man would have winced. John just tilted his head questioningly.

"Insults." A shrugged admittance.

"You don't actually listen to them, do you?" Incredulous, no other word for it.

"If you have the same words thrown at you for thirty years sooner or later sensitivities develop, no matter how nonsensical."

John did not answer. Could not. All this time he thought the insults slipped over him, filtered out as unnecessary useless noise. Adding to the 'everyone's an idiot' mentality. But now he could see them clinging, spiking little hooks and barbs into his back and weighing him down. His dislike for offensive people came not only from their idiocy and immaturity, but from their derision and mockery. He could see it now. How had he ever missed it?

"Don't pity me, John. Cruel words are rarely rootless. More often than not if I receive them it is because I have asked for them, in one way or another." He shrugged again, seeming careless.

"I don't pity you. I just don't understand you. Surely you, _especially_ you, can see the insults are meaningless, they are only meant to make you feel bad. They have no truth."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, the truthless ones are ignored. Why would I waste my time listening to something untrue."

And therein lay the problem. If they were based in truth then he would have had to listen and absorb them. But whatever happened to deleting useless information? John frowned, "So who was it today? What did they say?"

"I'm not going to talk this out like some bullied schoolgirl. I am perfectly capable of dealing with it, thank you." But instead of walking away, he sat down opposite, the action entirely belying his words.

"Just satisfy my curiosity." John pushed, as if he was the only one who wanted to talk about it. It was the only way this would work. He had to pretend Sherlock was doing him the favour, instead of the other way round.

"Today it was Donovan. Well, amongst others, but hers rang true."

"And she said?"

Sherlock sighed as though he found the exercise a pointless waste of his time. But no matter what he protested to the contrary, John knew that if that was true he wouldn't still be sat here. He might never admit that he needed to tell someone, but his continued presence at the kitchen table admitted it for him.

"She asked after you. Suggested you had made a lucky escape from me. Called me a freak eight times. Disgusting twice. Rude once. Just the usual really."

John frowned. Sherlock wasn't the only disgusting rude freak. Sally Donovan had joined the club.

"Well, you are rude, we all know that," John pointed out, addressing the easiest issue. He gave a little smile at Sherlock's raised eyebrow, "But things would take a lot longer if you weren't."

Sherlock's lips twitched at the side. He nodded, _touche_.

"As for disgusting, some of the things you entertain yourself with are a little beyond matters of hygiene." John gestured casually towards the pots on the kitchen counter, filled with goodness only knew what, but even John could smell them from there. "But how else do people learn, if not by stretching the boundaries of acceptability?"

Sherlock looked pondering at that. As if he wanted to protest that his experiments were perfectly hygienic, but at the same time wanted to think of himself as stretching boundaries in the name of science.

"And you_ are_ a freak."

Shocked eyes flew up to John's. He could see the flare of hurt in them, the dismay that John agreed with everyone else, even after all this time, and had actually told him so. He looked away a second too late to conceal his reaction.

"You _are_," he continued, and reached to Sherlock's hand, nudging his knuckles reassuringly, "A complete and utter freak of nature. There is none like you. You are a totally amazing marvellous brilliant freak."

"Ridiculous." He snorted.

"Yes, you are. And next time someone calls you a freak I think you should turn around and thank them. Because it is a compliment. I, for one, would love to be able to separate myself from the masses. A little distinguishment from the pool of ignorance would be nice sometimes."

Sherlock chuckled then and reached for his tea, "I knew this conversation would be a waste of time."

John grinned into his mug. As if.


End file.
